Unicorns

by Jack Dann

  "I'm sorry," he said, rising and returning to his pack. "I'd have offered you one if I'd thought you were something that might like it."

  He opened two more cans, returned with them, placed one near the far edge of the table, one at his own right hand.

  "Thank you," came a soft, precise voice from a point beyond it.

  The can was raised, tilted slightly, returned to the table-top.

  "My name is Martin," the man said.

  "Call me Tlingel," said the other. "I had thought that perhaps your kind was extinct. I am pleased that you at least have survived to afford me this game."

  "Huh?" Martin said. "We were all still around the last time that I looked—a couple of days ago."

  "No matter. I can take care of that later," Tlingel replied. "I was misled by the appearance of this place."

  "Oh. It's a ghost town. I backpack a lot."

  "Not important. I am near the proper point in your career as a species. I can feel that much."

  "I am afraid that I do not follow you."

  "I am not at all certain that you would wish to. I assume that you intend to capture that pawn?"

  "Perhaps. Yes, I do wish to. What are you talking about?"

  The beer can rose. The invisible entity took another drink.

  "Well," said Tlingel, "to put it simply, your—successors—grow anxious. Your place in the scheme of things being such an important one, I had sufficient power to come and check things out."

  " 'Successors'? I do not understand."

  "Have you seen any griffins recently?"

  Martin chuckled.

  "I've heard the stories," he said, "seen the photos of the one supposedly shot in the Rockies. A hoax, of course."

  "Of course it must seem so. That is the way with mythical beasts."

  "You're trying to say that it was real?"

  "Certainly. Your world is in bad shape. When the last grizzly bear died recently, the way was opened for the griffins—just as the death of the last aepyornis brought in the yeti, the dodo the Loch Ness creature, the passenger pigeon the sasquatch, the blue whale the kraken, the American eagle the cockatrice—"

  "You can't prove it by me."

  "Have another drink."

  Martin began to reach for the can, halted his hand and stared.

  A creature approximately two inches in length, with a human face, a lion-like body and feathered wings was crouched next to the beer can.

  "A mini-sphinx," the voice continued. "They came when you killed off the last smallpox bacillus."

  "Are you trying to say that whenever a natural species dies out a mythical one takes its place?" he asked.

  "In a word—yes. Now. It was not always so, but you have destroyed the mechanisms of evolution. The balance is now redressed by those others of us, from the morning land—we, who have never truly been endangered. We return, in our time."

  "And you—whatever you are, Tlingel—you say that humanity is now endangered?"

  "Very much so. But there is nothing that you can do about it, is there? Let us get on with the game."

  The sphinx flew off. Martin took a sip of beer and captured the Pawn.

  "Who," he asked then, "are to be our successors?"

  "Modesty almost forbids," Tlingel replied. "In the case of a species as prominent as your own, it naturally has to be the loveliest, most intelligent, most important of us all."

  "And what are you? Is there any way that I can have a look?"

  "Well—yes. If I exert myself a trifle."

  The beer can rose, was drained, fell to the floor. There followed a series of rapid rattling sounds retreating from the table. The air began to flicker over a large area opposite Martin, darkening within the growing flamework. The outline continued to brighten, its interior growing jet black. The form moved, prancing about the saloon, multitudes of tiny, cloven hoofprints scoring and cracking the floorboards. With a final, near-blinding flash it came into full view and Martin gasped to behold it.

  A black unicorn with mocking, yellow eyes sported before him, rising for a moment onto its hind legs to strike a heraldic pose. The fires flared about it a second longer, then vanished.

  Martin had drawn back, raising one hand defensively.

  "Regard me!" Tlingel announced. "Ancient symbol of wisdom, valor and beauty, I stand before you!"

  "I thought your typical unicorn was white," Martin finally said.

  "I am archetypical," Tlingel responded, dropping to all fours, "and possessed of virtues beyond the ordinary."

  "Such as?"

  "Let us continue our game."

  "What about the fate of the human race? You said—"

  ". . . And save the small talk for later."

  "I hardly consider the destruction of humanity to be small talk."

  "And if you've any more beer . . ."

  "All right," Martin said, retreating to his pack as the creature advanced, its eyes like a pair of pale suns. "There's some lager."

  Something had gone out of the game. As Martin sat before the ebon horn on Tlingel's bowed head, like an insect about to be pinned, he realized that his playing was off. He had felt the pressure the moment he had seen the beast—and there was all that talk about an imminent doomsday. Any run-of-the-mill pessimist could say it without troubling him, but coming from a source as peculiar as this . . .

  His earlier elation had fled. He was no longer in top form. And Tlingel was good. Very good. Martin found himself wondering whether he could manage a stalemate.

  After a time, he saw that he could not and resigned.

  The unicorn looked at him and smiled.

  "You don't really play badly—for a human," it said.

  "I've done a lot better."

  "It is no shame to lose to me, mortal. Even among mythical creatures there are very few who can give a unicorn a good game."

  "I am pleased that you were not wholly bored," Martin said. "Now will you tell me what you were talking about concerning the destruction of my species?"

  "Oh, that," Tlingel replied. "In the morning land where those such as I dwell, I felt the possibility of your passing come like a gentle wind to my nostrils, with the promise of clearing the way for us—"

  "How is it supposed to happen?"

  Tlingel shrugged, horn writing on the air with a toss of the head.

  "I really couldn't say. Premonitions are seldom specific. In fact, that is what I came to discover. I should have been about it already, but you diverted me with beer and good sport."

  "Could you be wrong about this?"

  "I doubt it. That is the other reason I am here."

  "Please explain."

  "Are there any beers left?"

  "Two, I think."

  "Please."

  Martin rose and fetched them.

  "Damn! The tab broke off this one," he said.

  "Place it upon the table and hold it firmly."

  "All right."

  Tlingel's horn dipped forward quickly, piercing the can 's top.

  ". . . Useful for all sorts of things," Tlingel observed, withdrawing it.

  "The other reason you 're here . . ." Martin prompted.

  "It is just that I am special. I can do things that the others cannot."

  "Such as?"

  "Find your weak spot and influence events to exploit it, to—hasten matters. To turn the possibility into a probability, and then—"

  "You are going to destroy us? Personally?"

  "That is the wrong way to look at it. It is more like a game of chess. It is as much a matter of exploiting your opponent's weaknesses as of exercising your own strengths. If you had not already laid the groundwork I would be powerless. I can only influence that which already exists."

  "So what will it be? World War III? An ecological disaster? A mutated disease?"

  "I do not really know yet, so I wish you wouldn't ask me in that fashion. I repeat that at the moment I am only observing. I am only an agent—"

  "It doesn't sound that
way to me."

  Tlingel was silent. Martin began gathering up the chessmen.

  "Aren't you going to set up the board again?"

  "To amuse my destroyer a little more? No thanks."

  "That's hardly the way to look at it—"

  "Besides, those are the last beers."

  "Oh." Tlingel stared wistfully at the vanishing pieces, then remarked, "I would be willing to play you again without additional refreshment . . ."

  "No thanks."

  "You are angry."

  "Wouldn't you be, if our situations were reversed?"

  "You are anthropomorphizing."

  "Well?"

  "Oh, I suppose I would."

  "You could give us a break, you know—at least, let us make our own mistakes."

  "You've hardly done that yourself, though, with all the creatures my fellows have succeeded."

  Martin reddened.

  "Okay. You just scored one. But I don't have to like it."

  "You are a good player. I know that . . ."

  "Tlingel, if I were capable of playing at my best again, I think I could beat you."

  The unicorn snorted two tiny wisps of smoke.

  "Not that good," Tlingel said.

  "I guess you'll never know."

  "Do I detect a proposal?"

  "Possibly. What's another game worth to you?"

  Tlingel made a chuckling noise.

  "Let me guess: You are going to say that if you beat me you want my promise not to lay my will upon the weakest link in mankind's existence and shatter it."

  "Of course."

  "And what do I get for winning?"

  "The pleasure of the game. That's what you want, isn't it?"

  "The terms sound a little lopsided."

  "Not if you are going to win anyway. You keep insisting that you will."

  "All right. Set up the board."

  "There is something else that you have to know about me first."

  "Yes?"

  "I don't play well under pressure, and this game is going to be a terrific strain. You want my best game, don't you?"

  "Yes, but I'm afraid I've no way of adjusting your own reactions to the play."

  "I believe I could do that myself if I had more than the usual amount of time between moves."

  "Agreed."

  "I mean a lot of time."

  "Just what do you have in mind?"

  "I 'll need time to get my mind off it, to relax, to come back to the positions as if they were only problems . . ."

  "You mean to go away from here between moves?"

  "Yes."

  "All right. How long?"

  "I don't know. A few weeks, maybe."

  "Take a month. Consult your experts, put your computers onto it. It may make for a slightly more interesting game."

  "I really didn't have that in mind."

  "Then it's time that you're trying to buy."

  "I can't deny that. On the other hand, I will need it."

  "In that case, I have some terms. I'd like this place cleaned up, fixed up, more lively. It's a mess. I also want beer on tap."

  "Okay. I'll see to that."

  "Then I agree. Let's see who goes first."

  Martin switched a black and a white pawn from hand to hand beneath the table. He raised his fists then and extended them. Tlingel leaned forward and tapped. The black horn's tip touched Martin's left hand.

  "Well, it matches my sleek and glossy hide," the unicorn announced.

  Martin smiled, setting up the white for himself, the black pieces for his opponent. As soon as he had finished, he pushed his Pawn to K4.

  Klingel's delicate, ebon hoof moved to advance the Black King's Pawn to K4.

  "I take it that you want a month now, to consider your next move?"

  Martin did not reply but moved his Knight to KB 3. Tlingel immediately moved a Knight to QB3.

  Martin took a swallow of beer and then moved his Bishop to N5. The unicorn moved the other Knight to B3. Martin immediately castled and Tlingel moved the Knight to take his Pawn.

  "I think we'll make it," Martin said suddenly, "if you'll just let us alone. We do learn from our mistakes, in time."

  "Mythical beings do not exactly exist in time. Your world is a special case."

  "Don't you people ever make mistakes?"

  "Whenever we do they're sort of poetic."

  Martin snarled and advanced his Pawn to Q4. Tlingel immediately countered by moving the Knight to Q3.

  "I've got to stop," Martin said, standing. "I'm getting mad, and it will affect my game."

  "You will be going, then?"

  "Yes."

  He moved to fetch his pack.

  "I will see you here in one month's time?"

  "Yes."

  "Very well."

  The unicorn rose and stamped upon the floor and lights began to play across its dark coat. Suddenly, they blazed and shot outward in all directions like a silent explosion. A wave of blackness followed.

  Martin found himself leaning against the wall, shaking. When he lowered his hand from his eyes, he saw that he was alone, save for the knights, the bishops, the kings, the queens, their castles and both the kings' men.

  He went away.

  Three days later Martin returned in a small truck, with a generator, lumber, windows, power tools, paint, stain, cleaning compounds, wax. He dusted and vacuumed and replaced rotted wood. He installed the windows. He polished the old brass until it shone. He stained and rubbed. He waxed the floors and buffed them. He plugged holes and washed glass. He hauled all the trash away.

  It took him the better part of a week to turn the old place from a wreck back into a saloon in appearance. Then he drove off, returned all of the equipment he had rented and bought a ticket for the Northwest.

  The big, damp forest was another of his favorite places for hiking, for thinking. And he was seeking a complete change of scene, a total revision of outlook. Not that his next move did not seem obvious, standard even. Yet, something nagged . . .

  He knew that it was more than just the game. Before that he had been ready to get away again, to walk drowsing among shadows, breathing clean air.

  Resting, his back against the bulging root of a giant tree, he withdrew a small chess set from his pack, set it up on a rock he'd moved into position nearby. A fine, mist-like rain was settling, but the tree sheltered him, so far. He reconstructed the opening through Tlingel's withdrawal of the Knight to Q3. The simplest thing would be to take the Knight with the Bishop. But he did not move to do it.

  He watched the board for a time, felt his eyelids drooping, closed them and drowsed. It may only have been for a few minutes. He was never certain afterwards.

  Something aroused him. He did not know what. He blinked several times and closed his eyes again. Then he reopened them hurriedly.

  In his nodded position, eyes directed downward, his gaze was fixed upon an enormous pair of hairy, unshod feet—the largest pair of feet that he had ever beheld. They stood unmoving before him, pointed toward his right.

  Slowly—very slowly—he raised his eyes. Not very far, as it turned out. The creature was only about four and a half feet in height. As it was looking at the chessboard rather than at him, he took the opportunity to study it.

  It was unclothed but very hairy, with a dark brown pelt, obviously masculine, possessed of low brow ridges, deep-set eyes that matched its hair, heavy shoulders, five-fingered hands that sported opposing thumbs.

  It turned suddenly and regarded him, flashing a large number of shining teeth.

  "White's pawn should take the pawn," it said in a soft, nasal voice.

  "Huh? Come on," Martin said. "Bishop takes knight."

  "You want to give me black and play it that way? I'll walk all over you."

  Martin glanced again at its feet.

  ". . . Or give me white and let me take that pawn. I'll still do it."

  "Take white," Martin said, straightening. "Let's see if you know what you're talking
about." He reached for his pack. "Have a beer?"

  "What's a beer?"

  "A recreational aid. Wait a minute."

  Before they had finished the six-pack, the sasquatch—whose name, he had learned, was Grend—had finished Martin. Grend had quickly entered a ferocious midgame, backed him into a position of swindling security and pushed him to the point where he had seen the end and resigned.

  "That was one hell of a game," Martin declared, leaning back and considering the ape-like countenance before him.

  "Yes, we Bigfeet are pretty good, if I do say it. It's our one big recreation, and we're so damned primitive we don't have much in the way of boards and chessmen. Most of the time, we just play it in our heads. There're not many can come close to us."

  "How about unicorns?" Martin asked.

  Grend nodded slowly.

  "They're about the only ones can really give us a good game. A little dainty, but they're subtle. Awfully sure of themselves, though, I must say. Even when they're wrong. Haven't seen any since we left the morning land, of course. Too bad. Got any more of that beer left?"

  "I'm afraid not. But listen, I'll be back this way in a month. I'll bring some more if you'll meet me here and play again."

  "Martin, you've got a deal. Sorry. Didn't mean to step on your toes."

  He cleaned the saloon again and brought in a keg of beer which he installed under the bar and packed with ice. He moved in some bar stools, chairs and tables which he had obtained at a Goodwill store. He hung red curtains. By then it was evening. He set up the board, ate a light meal, unrolled his sleeping bag behind the bar and camped there that night.

  The following day passed quickly. Since Tlingel might show up at any time, he did not leave the vicinity, but took his meals there and sat about working chess problems. When it began to grow dark, he lit a number of oil lamps and candles.

  He looked at his watch with increasing frequency. He began to pace. He couldn't have made a mistake. This was the proper day. He—